


Tales from Tamriel

by Sylphelle



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphelle/pseuds/Sylphelle
Summary: (Title might change to something more exciting)A series of one shots based on my many Elder Scrolls based ocs. The one shots will cover various games, but not all characters are connected, and might not be in the same continuity, unless explicitly stated.Tags added as this continues.





	Tales from Tamriel

The winds start to pick up, as a young woman huddles under a tree waiting for someone. Her unusually pale hands grasp on a bundle of fabric as she holds onto the cloak she's wearing in an attempt to stay a little warmer. Each night she waits for the return of a loved one, hoping that maybe, just maybe the fighting is over, and he will finally return. She knows the thoughts are idealistic, but she holds onto as much hope as she possibly can.

Even though it's late into the night, she's waiting for him, hoping that this will be the night he returns; It wasn't like she would be sleeping around this time, due to having an impractical, very erratic sleep pattern and her nightmares keeping her awake. As she waits, her fears start to kick in.

She worries that the first person she's held dear is being held against their will, or has fallen in battle. As these fears start to take over her thoughts, a feeling of dread fills the pit of her stomach, making her uneasy and a little sick. These thoughts continue to plague her until she sees the sun start to peak out, and then she forces herself back inside and soon she falls asleep when her head hits the pillow.

A couple hours later, she hears a knock at the door of her small but quaint home. She groggily stirs, sitting up in her bed, only to be temporarily blinded by messy strands of red hair. Regardless, she gets up and answers the door only to be met with disappointment.

"Are you Anskja?" The stranger asks the woman. He waits for her to nod before continuing. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mirkir has fallen in battle, and we fear he doesn't have much time left."

The last nine words are enough to make Anskja feel sick, and almost as if someone has punched her in the gut. Her hands are shaky as she takes the letters and places them on the tea table, but they're even more shaky when she takes the bag of what she can only guess are her beloved's belongings.

"When did it happen?" At this point, Anskja's voice is just barely above a whisper. She can feel her heart, or what's left of it shattering.

"A couple weeks ago." He replies as he hands Anskja a thick stack of letters. "The healers say it's a miracle that he's holding on for this long, but he keeps saying that there was someone waiting for him." the stranger pauses as he glances at her. "If it's of any comfort, it took a lot to take him down, and even now he continues to fight to keep alive." Anskja's lips curl up into a weak smile, but only for a moment. "The reason I'm here, is because he wishes to see you one last time."

\-------

The trip to see him is long, with one of the only things Anskja remember being the constant feeling of a painful sorrow. Neither she, nor the stranger talk much, and Anskja mostly keeps to herself in fear that this person will get too close. By the time she reached Mirkir's camp, he excuses himself all too quickly, and she's certain that part of him is afraid of her. Not that it mattered, as she only cares for her beloved and seeing him for a long as she possibly can.

The first thing Anskja remembers is the heavy smell of blood. With her senses being as heightened as they are, the smell hits her in a way that would have given her hunger, if not for the unfortunate circumstances. She feel disgusted with herself and tries to make herself forget what she truly is. Almost everyone around her is either covered in it from their injuries, or from trying to treat the wounded. 

She closes her eyes for a moment as she calms herself down. It's only then that a healer rushes to her side, to lead her to a makeshift tent. She hesitates for a moment, before forcing herself to follow.The closer she walks to the tent, the less real the moment feels, and the more she wishes this to all be a nightmare brought on to punish her for her every mistake. 

Inside, another healer tries to help Mirkir, by making him as comfortable as possible. He has some thick furs to keep warm, and the faint smell of mead tells her that someone managed to sneak in a small drink before he got to Sovengarde. He's a lot more frail than she remembers, and the beautiful sun touched, tan skin is almost as pale as her own. She can sense his heartbeat is weakening, and upon this observation, she freezes up.

"It's alright..." Mirkir rasps out. "Anskja..." he tries to sit up, but the healer stops him. "Right...sorry" he weakly chuckles, seemingly to himself. "Can...can you give us...some alone time?" the more he tries to talk, the weaker he becomes.

The two healers nod, and leave the tent, giving Anskja a chance to stand near what looks like a cot. She notices the fresh furs under him, and the old bloodstained rags that they fail to cover. 

"I-I'm sorry Ansk." the nerve-wracking cough fills the silence, causing Anskja to freeze up. "I know I promised...we would get out...start a new life..." another cough interrupts him. "I...I love you...you know that?" by now, the tears swell up in her eyes, stinging them. He weakly smiles when she nods. "That's good..." as Mirkir's strength starts to fade, everything start to go dark for him, and soon a numbness takes over him.

"I love you too." She whispers as she presses her lips to his cold forehead. She can feel his life fading away, but in her moment of desperation, she won't allow it. A small part of her knows that what she's going to do isn't right, and that many Nords would think of it as a curse, but her anguish blinds her to potential consequences.

"I can't...no...I won't let you die."

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I didn't really have a specific year for this to take place and I don't know where she would fit in the timeline.  
> Anskja was intended to be at the very least a couple hundred years old during the event of Oblivion, but was still fairly young when she met Mirkir. If I continue this, I will elaborate on what's wrong with Anskja and the pain she went through. Eventually her story will end up crossing with another skyrim kink meme prompt that I picked up, but but that's another story for another time.


End file.
